


Symphony Under the Sheets

by okayokayigive



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Pete's World
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 14:48:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okayokayigive/pseuds/okayokayigive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If that silly phone app was good for anything it was good for recording memories. Like his own (very public) baby book, chronicling his first few years as a human. But of all the little square pictures in the little albums inside his little tiny phone, this was the one he loved this most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Symphony Under the Sheets

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write this fic for what feels like forever. It started [here](http://okayokayigive.tumblr.com/post/27198242638/slowlizard-hamlet-stage-door-16th-august), and since then I've been collecting pics of DT in those ridiculous shirts. I had a heck of a time narrowing it down to nine.
> 
> The title is borrowed from Thea Gilmore’s song 'My Beautiful Defence' (and the traffic has stopped / for a minute at least / we lie like a symphony / under the sheets ).
> 
> This is for the curtainfic (domestic) trope, and hits my free square in Trope Bingo.

If that silly phone app was good for anything, it was good for recording memories. Like his own (very public) baby book, chronicling his first few years as a human. Pictures from his friends, from the paparazzi, from his own little camera phone (“they call them ‘selfies’, Rose!”), all collected and organized and arranged. Pictures of them in bathing suits at beaches around the world (and that one picture of them decidedly *not* in their suits. They wouldn’t be doing that again). Pictures of gustatory adventures: his first fancy meal, his first proper American hamburger, that time he licked a frog to see what would happen…and that moment when he was caught up behind a tree, vomiting up the consequences.

But of all the little square pictures in the little albums inside his little tiny phone, this was the one he loved the most. Rose had labeled it his “granny sheet shirt” collection, and while he couldn’t quite figure out what anyone’s granny had to do with it, she always said it with a smile on her face, so he loved it even if it didn’t make any sense.

When he’d landed here in Pete’s World, he’d had his blue suit and not much else. And one needed “else” here. Things like pants, and socks, and new trainers that weren’t crusty with sand and seawater, and some trousers that were perhaps a bit more casual than a suit, and new glasses and a toothbrush and all the trappings of a mostly human life. Rose had taken him out immediately upon their return to London, of course, to get some of the necessities, but proper clothes? She left that up to him (and wisely so). And so, on his third day in Pete’s World - on his third day as a part-human, part-Time Lord metacrisis, he’d found himself wandering around the streets of London in search of the perfect clothes.

He didn’t know quite what to expect, of course - that was, after all, part of the adventure, even if it was a bit of a dull one - but he definitely didn’t expect to find Alfonso. (So close to Alonso, he mourned. Allons-y, Alfonso! didn’t have *quite* the same ring to it.)

Alfonso was a little old man - judging by the wrinkles on his face and the experience in his eyes, you might think he’d lived as long as the Doctor - but his hands were sure and he was an  _artist_. He measured and pinned and tapered and tucked, and three hours later the Doctor headed home with a skip in his step.

Rose was a bit concerned when she saw him come through the door empty-handed. “Doctor, if you can’t find a suit off the rack that’s right, I’m sure we can have something made, but you need something to wear until then.”

He caught her up and spun her around, setting her down and kissing her firmly. “No, Rose - I found it! All the clothes I’ll ever need! Well, shirts, anyway. I found Alfonso, and he makes, oh…what does he call them?” The Doctor dug in his pocket for the card. “‘Bespoke Upcycled Shirts for the Discriminating Man’”. That’s me, Rose! I am the discriminating man! And the material he uses - it’s so soft, and lovely, it’s like it’s been pre-loved, just for my baby soft ski—I mean, it’s soft against my very manly skin. And the patterns! My favorite one is blue roses - it makes me think of you. Well, us. You know, blue for the TARDIS, and roses for you? So I can keep you with me always. I got a bunch of those…as many as he could make with the fabric he had left. Seems like the stuff he uses is always in short supply. But it’s not just flowers, Rose - there are these lovely pink…lanterny things, and some with stripes, and even a peach one with polka dots. Me, in polka dots! I don’t think I’ve ever worn polka dots before. Question marks, certainly, and for extended periods of time…but not polka dots. And I can wear them with anything, Alfonso said! Jeans, suit coats, sweaters, maybe even some track pants…”

He handed the card over absentmindedly and headed to the bedroom to change into his comfy, TV-watching-and-snuggling-Rose clothes (which were, of course, always going to be better than Alfonso’s shirts, because they meant more Rose near him and next to him and on him, and that was always, always good. A lifetime’s worth of always.)

In the next room, Rose looked at Alfonso’s business card and giggled to herself. “Upcycled”, eh? She could only imagine what her mum would say when she found out the Doctor had spent £3,000 on shirts made out of someone’s used bed sheets. Maybe they could count this as their next adventure?


End file.
